SGA: I Focus on the Pain
by Syl
Summary: When Nancy sees her ex-husband after a long absence, she's overcome with an urgent need to throttle him. So, what else is new?


**Summary**: When Nancy sees her ex-husband after a long absence, she's overcome with an urgent need to throttle him. So, what else is new?

**Author's Note**: Some dialogue is borrowed from "Outcast," episode 4.15.

**Warnings/Rating**: None/PG

**Words**: 1,900

**Disclaimer**: Stargate Atlantis belongs to MGM and 20th Century Fox; this is an original story that does not intend to infringe on their copyright. Any and all critical feedback is appreciated.

**Copyright**: May 2010

I Focus on the Pain

By Syl Francis

I walked away without a backward glance, taking long, purposeful strides. Angry? I was steaming. I wanted to throttle him, in fact!

"Talk about people that can make your head explode," I muttered. So…what else is new?

John Sheppard will never change, I fumed. The nerve! Did he think I'd just roll over? Use my security clearance and position as a Homeland Security Director—something I worked damn hard to earn—to do him a favor?

Over something that was _too secret_ to tell me about?

"Puh-leese!" I muttered, kicking at a rock that was too stupid to get out of my way.

Four years--! Four long years with no word…He just dropped off the face of the earth. Even his closest friends had lost touch with him after that fiasco in Afghanistan and his subsequent transfer to Antarctica.

Naturally, he had to go back for Holland against orders, I thought sourly. This is John we're talking about—Major "Leave No Man Behind" Sheppard.

Never mind the cost to his career and reputation, or that his foolish stunt reflected badly on the Sheppard name, and by extension on Sheppard Industries, a global company that John's father, Patrick Sheppard had started from the bottom-up. I suppose it was Dave's company now, since John had so stubbornly walked away from it all those years ago.

Unfortunately, even I hadn't been immune to the fallout from John's misplaced heroics. There had been an awkward moment, while the deputy director of my field office was interviewing me for a promotion from data analyst to mid-level supervisor, when he began asking me questions about my relationship with John.

"According to this…" he said, glancing up from a file lying on his desk, "Major Sheppard may be considered a possible security risk at this time."

I almost snorted at the unlikelihood of such an occurrence, but somehow managed to keep my expression neutral.

"John and I are divorced, sir," I said calmly. "We've been separated for more than a year now. In fact…I haven't seen him since we signed the separation papers." As if I had anything to do with him by then. He wasn't the only one who was good at walking away.

I scowled, remembering my own irritation at John, Patrick's self-righteous anger, and Dave's disappointment in his brother. Just your typical wealthy, dysfunctional family.

Of course, since our divorce had been finalized, I was technically no longer part of the family—thank goodness for small favors—but Patrick had always had a soft spot for me. I don't know…maybe he thought that I'd manage to bring his prodigal son back into the fold. Perhaps get him to resign his commission, and take his proper place in the family business. Fat chance of that ever happening.

But, surprise, surprise! It was "_**Colonel**_ Sheppard" now, I thought, mentally adding air quotes. So John must've gotten a reprieve somehow. And wouldn't I love to hear how _**that**_ happened. Most of the stuffed-shirts I'd met that comprised the senior officer corps of the U.S. Air Force weren't the forgive-and-forget type.

I shrugged. Different rank, same man—in other words, a dirty sock by any other name still stank!

I reflected on the irony of having seen him twice in two days—first at his dad's Wake, and now at this amateurish, clandestine meeting. As I'd told him with just the right touch of cool indifference, this was more times than I'd seen him when we were married.

And wasn't his expression just so…John?

Let's face it, when we were together, John was almost incapable of stringing a coherent sentence together to express anything regarding his feelings. And, if our brief attempt at an awkward conversation at the Wake was any indication, then apparently nothing had changed in that regard.

Still, John was the king of the nonverbal response. Admittedly, I was a little rusty in my "John body language" interpretation skills, but I saw right away that he was highly uncomfortable when I approached him at the Wake yesterday. Let's see…the nervous rubbing of the back of his neck—check; the worried biting of his lower lip—check; the whole sticking his hands in his pockets because he doesn't know what to do with them—check. Yep…same old, same old.

I have to say that I was a bit surprised—okay, I was downright floored—when he called me and asked to meet him at Rock Creek Park. This had been one of our favorite weekend getaways when we'd been temporarily stationed at Andrews AFB. I couldn't help wondering if he had an underlying reason for picking it as a meeting place.

I shook my head. John had Special Ops training, skills that I knew made him a very dangerous man to his enemies; however, these did not translate well toward social prevarication. For a man who exuded as much cool confidence as any matinee action hero, John was just too honest to dissemble, too clueless to make any attempt at subterfuge. Therefore, try as he might to appear his normally imperturbable self, he only came across as awkward. I used to think that was such an endearing quality. Now, it just made him look twitchy.

Of course, once he'd worked up the nerve to tell me why he'd asked for the ridiculously cloak-and-dagger meeting. He wanted information on a classified "…project, possibly codenamed Archetype." I went completely cold inside. I felt as if an icy hand had grabbed me and started squeezing. I couldn't be hearing right.

"You want me to use my security clearance to get you classified information?" I asked shocked.

"Well, I didn't say it was a small favor," he protested.

Something snapped inside me. I remembered all those times that he would just take that phone call—no apologies, no explanations—and just leave. But we weren't married anymore, and I didn't have to put up with his secrets…

I drove back to my office building in Crystal City, an upscale, Arlington neighborhood adjacent to the Pentagon, made up of glass towers, high-end condos and townhouses, and trendy eateries. I felt the usual sense of exhilaration I always did as soon as I stepped into the glass and marble reception area. I flashed my ID at the security guards, smiled at the on-duty desk receptionist, and headed toward the elevators.

As I stepped out onto my floor, I addressed my personal assistant. "Kathleen, please hold my calls the rest of the day."

"Yes, ma'm."

Smiling, I headed toward my office. As always, I got a kick out of the plaque on the door:

Director, Field Office

Homeland Security

Arlington, VA

I had earned that title through hard work and dedication, and now John wanted me jeopardize it all without even the courtesy of telling me why?

"So typical," I muttered, unconsciously repeating what I'd said to him...

"What the hell's that supposed to mean?" he asked, his expression momentarily unguarded. He ducked his head quickly, but not before I saw the look of hurt that flashed in his eyes…

I sighed and sat down at my desk. John is who is.

His father used to call him irresponsible. Of course, nothing was further from the truth. If anything, John was _too_ responsible. He took everything—his dedication to duty, his responsibility for others, his self-recrimination for anything that went wrong—to levels that were humanly impossible to maintain. Worse, he expected everyone to understand and accept his worldview as the norm.

Which is where most of his problems came from.

He butted heads with Patrick long before I made an appearance—over what schools to attend, what to major in, who his friends should be, what career path was expected of him. And John rebelled in a typical John manner. He had to attend the private schools his father chose for him while he was underage. However, when it came to colleges, he refused to apply to Harvard as his father expected, and instead applied to and was accepted at Stanford.

While that had been bad enough, according to Dave, once his father finally came to terms with the idea of John attending Stanford, he again shocked everyone by being accepted to the Air Force Academy. How and when he managed to submit all of his applications—to include a congressional recommendation letter—without his father's knowledge were still a mystery at the Sheppard household. I grinned suddenly, wishing I'd been a fly on the wall when Patrick had found out.

Abruptly, the brief moment of levity passed as I was unexpectedly assaulted with bittersweet memories of my failed marriage. I had loved John with a passion that would leave me breathless. Sometimes when he gave me a certain look, I would literally grow weak at the knees, as clichéd as that sounds. I remembered being unable to think rationally around him, helplessly reacting to his physical presence.

Which is why we ended up in bed so often, I added ruefully, even when I was supposed to be mad at him.

Truthfully, when I first caught sight of him at the Wake—looking a little older, but like a superior vintage of wine, grown better with age—I actually had to stop, take a deep breath, and remind myself that I was happily married to Grant now. If I had a funny, weak feeling at the pit of my stomach…well, what of it? It was probably from the tuna salad I'd just eaten.

I thought of quiet, reliable Grant. He was an associate at a prestigious Washington, D.C., law firm, happy in his junior position, not looking to making partner anytime soon. He kept regular hours, and oftentimes was home before me, especially since I made director. He never complained about my long hours or frequent business trips. However, recently—and here I felt a sudden pang—Grant had begun to look at me the same way that I had looked at John when he'd received those late-night phone calls.

In my mind's eye, I again saw the injured look that flashed across John's eyes when I'd told him what I thought of him. I'd seen that look a few times before, usually after he and Patrick had had yet another one of their "talks." However, the two I remembered most clearly were the times that I had been responsible for that little boy lost look.

The first occasion was at the hospital shortly after my miscarriage when I blamed him for the loss of our unborn child. The second occurred shortly before he shipped off to Afghanistan as he signed the initial separation papers in the lawyer's office. Each time it seemed as if someone had reached into his chest and torn out a piece of his heart. Each time he'd hugged me afterwards—first, to ask me for forgiveness; then, to tell me goodbye.

I fought back the sudden stinging in my eyes. I swiped impatiently at the threatening tears and took a stuttering breath. It was time I accepted John's painfully awkward, attempts to apologize for whatever hurt, real or imagined, I had accused him of causing me—ironically, these were wounds that I myself had inflicted on us.

It was I who should apologize to him—I who should ask for his forgiveness. Straightening my shoulders in sudden resolve, I booted my computer and began a highly illegal search for a classified "project possibly codenamed Archetype."

It was time to stop focusing on the pain of the past.

The End

(Note: Title taken from a line in the Johnny Cash song "Hurt"; lyrics by Trent Reznor)


End file.
